


RuroKen Collection- Jinchuu

by Kenkaya



Category: Rurouni Kenshin
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Character Study, F/M, Jinchuu Arc, Psychological Trauma, Supernatural Elements, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-17
Updated: 2015-06-24
Packaged: 2018-04-04 20:10:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4151265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kenkaya/pseuds/Kenkaya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of oneshots and drabbles written for RuroKen Week 2015. The overarching theme is Jinchuu.</p><p>Day 1: Dreams/Realities/Illusions- “Can you see me Enishi?” she asked, reaching out. Her pale, hazy incorporeal hand hovered hesitantly over his hunched shoulder. “Can you hear me?”</p><p>Day 2: Slang/Jargon- Sessha wa rurouni… This unworthy one is a wanderer…</p><p>Day 3: Vengeance/Atonement- Oibore finally understood…this was his atonement: for being a coward, for abandoning his family.</p><p>Day 4: Subterfuge/Stealth-  Aoshi couldn’t think of a more fitting cause for his last acts as Okashira. </p><p>Day 5: Trust/Betrayal- Because in the end... Enishi hadn’t honored his sister’s memory at all.</p><p>Day 6: Life/Death- “I’m not an idiot,” Kaoru interrupted. “There’s something you’re not telling me, and I know the others will just sugarcoat it the way they obviously did on the ship. Please, Megumi-san… I’m worried. Don’t leave me in the dark about this.”</p><p>Day 7: Free Day (Yahiko's Moving Day)- Yahiko didn’t realize how much he’d grown accustomed to living surrounded by family (albeit a rather unconventional one) until now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dreams/Realities/Illusions

**Author's Note:**

> So… I really wanted to participate in RuroKen Week this year, but the first prompt (which started out as a short drabble in my head) ended up running on into this 2000+ word thing. The ending still feels a bit rushed to me, but I’m already two days late so I wanted to get this up ASAP. I might come back to it later and revise more. I hope you enjoyed it!

“You’re really there, aren’t you Nee-san?”

Tomoe turned to face her younger brother, shocked. He was leaning against the wooden ship rail, chin resting on crossed arms as short wisps of his prematurely whitened hair swayed in the breeze. Below them, the steady splash of waves against a pitched hull drowned out the garbled mix of Chinese and Japanese dialects shouted by the crew behind. The ship deck was noisy, teeming with activity, yet the atmosphere in that moment felt strangely isolated. She smiled wistfully from her place beside him.

 _“Can you see me Enishi?”_ she asked, reaching out. Her pale, hazy incorporeal hand hovered hesitantly over his hunched shoulder. _“Can you hear me?”_

The boy stared blankly out at the grey-green water, not once indicating that he recognized her presence. She dropped her outstretched limb, resigned. No one had seen her since she came to that day- floating above her weeping husband as he cradled her stiff cold body in bloodstained snow. No one had (and probably never would), still, Tomoe couldn’t quite squash the desperate desire to be noticed. Couldn’t help the hope that welled within her every time someone showed the slightest of signs that they might be aware…

Kenshin, she was fairly certain, had at least been able to sense her on a subconscious level. He didn’t speak often or even look her way, but the tension along his jaw always seemed to soften whenever her soul approached his. When she surrounded his sleeping body with intangible arms, Tomoe swore the reverent sigh he released had been her name. Those early insubstantial days had been a violent daze of drifting through war-touched streets; she bounced between consoling her widowed husband as he resolutely held on to his humanity through each kill (regardless of the extra pain that caused him), and watching helplessly as her homeless brother became a washed out shadow of himself. Truly, she had been relieved after Toba-Fushimi. The war was over. Kenshin had walked away with a new sword and boldly declared purpose, while Enishi lingered barefoot around the docks of Osaka. 

When the destitute boy finally boarded a ship bound for China, Tomoe followed without second thoughts. Kenshin would be fine now; she had faith in him. Enishi, however, was just a child. A little boy without a mother, who had recently witnessed the death of the closest thing he’d ever had to one. She couldn’t care for him the way she used to, but, if her presence could someday sooth him the way it had for Kenshin- well, she would cling to that hope.

Enishi’s question, though he directed the words out across a dreary February sea, was the first indication that perhaps her optimism wasn’t in vain. Tomoe smiled brightly. Her ghostly steps haunted his the rest of their journey, never straying more than a couple paces. He didn’t addressed her once in that time, still, she persisted. She loved her brother dearly, and so, she kept smiling in a frantic attempt to somehow project that love. Her smile didn’t falter once, not even when the ship anchored and they disembarked onto unfamiliar Shanghai streets. 

They wandered through dark foreign alleys for weeks. Enishi slept under a set of rickety stairs at first, then, after losing a fist-challenge by several vicious older boys, he squeezed behind a peeling blue warehouse shed. Fights broke out frequently on the backstreets. Tomoe’s faith wavered the longer he lived rough, his white hair steadily transforming into a greasy grey mess. She watched, helpless, each morning as he nursed fresh wounds. By evening, the boy would be up and about: already trading back insults in Shanghainese and English while his sister gaped at the kid’s adaptability. On cold nights, his nose ran, sometimes accompanied by cheeks flushed red with fever. Enishi was surviving, barely, but Tomoe wished for so much more. She thought leaving Japan had been a positive step for him, perhaps she was wrong? 

Just as her spirit began to lose hope, the warehouse owner found Enishi coughing behind his shed. Tomoe initially feared her brother was about to suffer another beating, but the merchant proved to be gentle, partially-blind old man. He returned several times, hobbling on his polished cane, with offerings of food and fresh clothing, switching to flawless Japanese on the second visit after he heard Enishi’s accented “thank you.” Tomoe smiled again on the eighth visit when the man finally voiced an invitation. Apparently, he had told his wife about the sick Japanese beggar boy behind his shed, and she insisted on generously opening their home.

Enishi accepted. He was bathed, dressed in fine fabrics, and presented with a soft bed of his own. The boy never did realize his sister was there, silently supporting him, but he found a place where he could thrive all the same. 

Tomoe remembered with bitter clarity how relieved she’d felt then. She really believed her brother’s trials were over and done with. Her loved ones were doing well- so tantalizingly close to the happy endings she dreamed for them during those bloody nights she hovered by them, powerless and unseen.

Then, seemingly out of the blue, Enishi picked up a sword and wiped away her afterlife dreams with a spray of blood.

He killed the merchant first. Tomoe gasped, her smile faltering at the sudden action. The man was just as shocked, a reflexive widening of cataract clouded eyes the only action he completed before his heart stopped. Next, Enishi stabbed the wife, his expression stony as she begged, laugh lines around her eyes and mouth twisting in unnatural directions on her kind face. Tomoe echoed the older woman’s begging, though those words went unheard by all but herself. She would have given anything in that moment for the ability to touch Enishi, to shake him by the shoulders and see a reaction to her screamed “why?!” Instead, the ghostly figure could only cry when their manservant ran in, followed soon after by an elderly maid. She wailed as they became victims of his blade. The maid raised frail skeletal hands in a pleading gesture. Enishi cut them off without blinking.

 _“What happened, Enishi?”_ Tomoe choked at the gore. _“This wasn’t supposed to happen. How did you become this?”_

“I understand, nee-san.” 

The ghost stared at him through mist tears. Had Enishi actually… ? But his blue eyes were locked elsewhere in the room, looking forward while she curled over the ground behind him. 

_“E… Enishi?”_

“This was a dead end path… it would’ve hindered us. But don’t worry, nee-san!” he grinned widely at thin air. “I know what to do. It might take a while… but you can keep smiling ‘cause I’ll finish it for you.” 

Tomoe watched, numb, as Enishi turned around and left, uncaring of the way his feet squelched in puddles of red. She felt nothing when he passed straight through her form. Her brother had gone insane. He never noticed her; the boy had only imagined a warped version of his sister, a version who wasn’t horrified by the mass murder he just committed. 

_“You were such a sweet child, Enishi. Where did I go wrong? How could I possibly make up for my failings to you now? How could I ever make up for my death?”_

She couldn’t. But, he was her dearest little brother, and she didn’t have a heart capable of giving up on him. So, she steeled herself, unfurling to trail after him as always. The ghostly woman was certain that she would witness far worse in the future before things got better.

She was right. For once, she wished she hadn’t been.

Enishi moved back to the Shanghai streets and quickly embroiled himself with the local mafia. He stole, trained in martial arts and sword forms, then, after he hit his growth spurt, the teen was promoted to grunt muscle. He beat and threatened others without regard. Soon enough, he was killing for crime lords as well. Tomoe’s brother had grown into quite a skilled swordsman, especially considering he was self-taught. Rather than pride, she felt sick at his accomplishments. 

However, she regained a fraction of hope when he was fifteen. Enishi had been sent after a runaway prostitute, a young naive girl he caught up to easily enough on the docks. He used his recently gained height to overpower her, corralling the girl under an out-of-the-way overhang, and slamming her against the wall to stun. The petite girl gasped, strong fingers wrapping around her slim throat. Sleek black hair spilled over sloped shoulders as she wheezed a litany of soundless, “please, please, please…” 

Tomoe almost looked away. Nothing she’d experienced in or after life- her mother’s death, Kiyosato’s departure, Kenshin’s battles, even Enishi’s first breakdown- compared to watching the boy she practically raised strangle the life from a desperate girl. He teetered precariously on an edge, leaning over a dark pit which Tomoe feared he may never be able to crawl out of once he slipped. 

“No!”

Suddenly, he threw the girl to the gravel below. The boy was shaking, tremors wracking his tall body, glazed eyes fixed forward while he ignored the girl. She coughed roughly as she pushed herself clumsily off the ground.

“Get away!” Enishi barked.

The girl quickly complied. Only Tomoe, invisible apparition that she was, lingered to see him crack. 

“I’m sorry, nee-san,” he whispered to his twisted hallucination. The teenage boy bowed until his clammy brow rested against the wall in front of him. “I’m sorry… so sorry! Forgive me!”

Enishi was punished for his failure: bound to the reed floor, blindfolded and beaten repeatedly by various gang members. And though Tomoe wept at his pain, secretly she smiled. Her brother had refused to kill for the first time. He might not be completely lost, after all.

Later, watching him ruthlessly slaughter an aging woman and her son but not the daughter, Tomoe realized what exactly prevented him from killing. Enishi couldn’t bring himself to harm young women with black hair; in other words, he was incapable of killing anyone who resembled his sister right before she died. He had no morals, merely a series of conditions dictated by a corrupted psychosis revolving around her. This revelation doused the spirit with a fresh wave of guilt. She was the reason Enishi became such a brutal conflicted man. How had she managed to fail him in all the worst ways possible?

Years passed and Enishi excelled in the criminal underbelly. He worked his way up, killing less as he gained underlings to do his dirty work instead. Eventually, he reached the top. Tomoe no longer watched him commit violent acts, but now her heart sank every time she heard him order others to do those acts. What was the point of staying with him? Her presence stirred nothing in him; Enishi spoke exclusively to the vision in his head and observing him simply caused her heartache. Her faith had long since dried up, yet, she couldn’t bring herself to abandon him. She followed the newly anointed mafia boss listlessly from one shady meeting to the next, finally shadowing him onto ship bound for Japan. The spirit felt no joy over their return. Why would this journey be any different than the last?

Then, she saw Kenshin on the bridge. He looked older, wiser, worryingly occupied, but, most importantly, content. Tomoe smiled again for the first time in ages and he looked back, a veil seeming to lift briefly from his violet eyes. He called her name.

“What’s wrong Battousai? Did you see my sister’s ghost?” 

The full weight of Enishi’s plan, his wide-sweeping revenge, settled on her as he declared his intentions to rip apart Kenshin’s world. No, no, no! She didn’t want this at all!

_“Tell him, Kenshin! Please! He has to see… I never wanted this life for him!”_

But the veil had dropped once more. Her husband pleaded with Enishi to focus his revenge, to leave the innocent out of his rampage, and Tomoe shook all the while: wanting none of it. 

The next few days were a nightmarish mirror of those Shanghai nights. She was invisible, a passive observer as Enishi prepared for his most heinous act to come. He fought, destroyed, and kidnapped a vivacious young woman- leaving behind a grotesque corpse copy to utterly break her husband.

 _“No! Enishi, stop!”_ Tomoe whirled around the porch of his opulent island hideaway. The young man was lounging on cushioned chair, recovering, blithely unaware of the frustrated entity circling him in a frenzy. _“I can’t watch this anymore! You have to stop this, Enishi. Please? Can you listen to me just this once? Just… STOP!”_

“Nee-san?” 

Her energy spun out, leaving an indistinct stationary form. His eyes were focused on her for once, clear. Did she dare hope… ?

“You’re not smiling for me anymore.”

Their connection snapped, but the illusion had already been shattered. 

xxxxxx


	2. Slang/Jargon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sessha wa rurouni… This unworthy one is a wanderer…

_Sessha wa rurouni…_

Those were among the first words he spoke to her on an empty Tokyo street, chill dawn mist fogging the air between them. She was confident and vivacious. Later, after the false Battousai had been discredited and his own past came to light, he would learn she was also incredibly kind.

_Sessha wa rurouni…_

He repeated those words to her on a mild May evening. Fireflies danced around them as he drew his arms around her and said farewell. He had to leave, had to clean up the frayed tangled strings left behind by the war he fought for. She was crying, hiccuping his name while he walked away. That was when he knew the world she opened up to him (a world of warmth, peace and acceptance… of family) was not one he was ever meant to have. 

_Sessha wa rurouni…_

_This unworthy one is a wanderer…_

But, her determined heart proved him wrong. She followed him to Kyoto, faced him in his sword master’s home with a resolute expression, and fought alongside the Oniwabanshu at the Aoiya. He saw then how strong she was. The young woman who held out her hand to him had true strength: strength of mind, body, and spirit. And she welcomed him back without a second thought. 

_Tadaima._

_I’m home._

She was pinned to the wall of her beloved dojo- the dream she inherited from her samurai father- a sword through her heart. The polished wood behind was splattered, tainted, with dark ocher red. His eyes met hers: a vacant blue that didn’t see, would never see again. Only then did his gaze fall on the crude copy of his cross-shaped scar carved deep into her left cheek. The mark bled sluggishly, red drips trailing slowly down her jawline as the image blurred. Tears fell from his eyes; the sakabatou clunked against the ground beside him. What use was the blade (everything) anyway if it (he) couldn’t even... 

_Sessha..._

_This unworthy one..._

He still was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A piece for RuroKen Week that actually remained short! Woot!
> 
> Anyway, when I saw the day 2 prompt, I immediately thought of Kenshin. He has such a distinct, antiquated way of speaking… and, even more interesting, he only speaks that way as a rurouni. I’m sure some of the reason for that lies in obfuscating stupidity, but I believe a larger part stems from his personal guilt and trauma after the Bakumatsu. Seriously, there’s so much potential material when you really think about it. Psychology papers could probably be written on the significance of Kenshin’s speech patterns.


	3. Vengeance/Atonement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oibore finally understood…this was his atonement: for being a coward, for abandoning his family.

He first saw the redhead swordsman in Kyoto, shortly after discovering his daughter’s death. 

The graveyard had been quiet, peaceful: an ironic contrast to the war still being fought outside its boundaries. Wind blew gently, rustling flowers and carrying the sweet musk of incense across every grave. Even the forgotten ones. The old man stood in front of a bare marker, suddenly guilty that he brought no offering for her except his filthy presence. A presence that probably would have done far more good in life than death. But he felt grateful that, at the very least, his eldest child (no longer a child, he had to remind himself) could rest undisturbed here.

Crunching footsteps alerted him to the entrance of another. The old man hastily ducked behind a large family memorial nearby. His clothing was tattered and dirty, his silver beard long and unkempt- clear marks of a vagabond. He was painfully aware of how his appearance unsettled others outside the slums he frequented. Not wishing to bother whoever had come to pay their respects, the man decided to take the high-road. He would wait for them to pass, then slink away.

That was his plan, until they stopped in front of his daughter’s grave. Curious as to who would visit her (perhaps his estranged son? No… if he recalled correctly, Enishi should still be too young for those heavy steps), the man peered around the stone, and saw red.

The visitor was short, petite in a way that belied his skill as a hitokiri. But the man knew who he was; had heard the half-conjured whispers of an inhuman man with fire red hair and a crossed scar cut across his left cheek. He also knew from those whispers that this man was the one who defeated the Yaminobu. The same group his daughter had been affiliated with before she died.

For a brief moment, rage overcame the man. How dare this murderer come to his girl’s grave! He had no right! A vision of poetic vengeance: of startling the interloper and squeezing his breath away atop the final resting place of one whose life he took, danced behind the lens of his battered glasses. Reality set in soon enough, a weak man like him could never hope to match the fearsome Hitokiri Battousai, but his initial ire didn’t fade. 

“Tomoe.”

The gentle baritone, jarringly at odds with the owner’s violent reputation, spoke his daughter’s name, each syllable released with a wavering lilt bordering on reverence. The anger drained out of him as incense was lit, cloying trails of smoke twining together above them as the other knelt and raised his bloodstained hands in prayer. 

The hitokiri- this young man loved his daughter.

He sat down in awe of the revelation, all thoughts of vengeance and hatred vanishing in an instant. Years of living in back alleys among undesirables had taught him that their were often many sides to a story. Clearly, this was one such instance. 

He watched pensively as the young man communed. He told himself Battousai had no right to visit her, but, truly, what right did _he_ have? Unlike this man, he hadn’t actually known his daughter; he didn’t even think to bring incense to her grave. His last memory of the girl had been shortly after his wife’s funeral, staring down at dark young eyes. The ten-year old had been holding her baby brother, both looking to him expectantly, and the man panicked. He ran. Old fool that he was, he had almost forgotten that he was really no father at all.

Battousai rose then, glancing furtively in his direction (did he know… ?), but made no move towards him. Instead, the swordsman clapped his hands once, inclined his head slightly, and murmured a shaky “thank you.” The man sat still, barely daring to breath, while the other departed. Wisps of smoke sputtered and died as the incense burned out. 

Yes, he thought, Battousai had far more right to visit Tomoe than he did. Wishing harm on a boy who cherished her so would only disgrace his daughter’s memory.

The second time he saw the swordsman ten years had passed. 

He was passing through Tokyo’s Rakuninmura, where the residents had affectionately dubbed him ‘Oibore.’ Even through his poor eyesight and the passage of time, he recognised the head of red hair slumped against a crumbling wall. By now, he was aware of his daughter’s marriage, and her true relationship with the despondent man wasting away in front of him. Oibore would never be presumptuous enough to claim Himura Kenshin as a son (he was no father), but guilt and a desire to honor what he had of Tomoe’s memory pushed him to help. He spoke, and, when that earned him no response, he uncorked his precious bottle of white plum perfume. His wife had worn the scent. Oibore vividly remembered catching his young daughter sneaking into her mother’s chest before the funeral, dabbing the fragrance on herself. He heard later, from old family connections, that she had continued to do so into womanhood. 

Eventually, Himura Kenshin broke his chains. Oibore smiled when he left, glad, for his daughter’s sake, that her husband had found reason to live. He had finally been able to make his amends in her spirit’s name. Still, the old man felt his penance was far from over. He returned, lingering in Rakuninmura, unable to pin the niggling sensation that inclined him to stay.

Oibore finally understood when he spotted the white-haired man hunched in Himura’s former position, a bent and tattered journal clutched lovingly in his hand. This was his atonement: for being a coward, for abandoning his family. His second chance to be the father he never was. Carefully, he lowered himself beside a grown Enishi.

“Rest easy here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:** My first instinct with this prompt was to write something from Enishi’s POV… but, when I was rereading Jinchuu in preparation for this week, I was suddenly sucked in by Oibore’s untold story as an absentee and (to be blunt) shitty father. He seems to carry major regrets considering his vagabond lifestyle, not to mention his familiar presence in Rakuninmura. On this read-through, I was really hit by how the final scene between him and Enishi felt like a possible atonement for him as well.


	4. Subterfuge/Stealth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aoshi couldn’t think of a more fitting cause for his last acts as Okashira.

Night mist clung to his lungs as a wet chill, fogging in front of his face with each moist exhale. Around him, the graveyard was silent- save a few stubborn cicadas holding out through early autumn and the occasional owl. Clouds obscured the moon, shrouding the lone man in black further amidst darkness. 

_Three._

Three days had passed since Aoshi set his trap. Three nights since he began his vigil at the false grave of Kamiya Kaoru. The earth beneath her marker was empty now: only an exterior lie upheld to ensnare the man responsible for that cruel mockery of a corpse. Aoshi sat alone in shadow, waiting, turning objectives over in his head until his opponent came.

_Two._

Another man in black seemingly materialized at the scene. His entire body was covered, indistinct in the surrounding darkness; the smooth white glaze of a ceramic skull mask provided the only definition on his monochrome form. _Gein_ , Aoshi identified him matter-of-factly. Because, as a seasoned onimitsu, Aoshi understood the value of having information before walking into a fight.

The trap sprung beautifully. Gein escaped the net easily, but Aoshi had expected as much. Someone skilled enough to create and control such complex human dolls would not be captured so simply. The younger man stepped forward, calmly, with a clear purpose in mind.

“Where is Kamiya Kaoru?”

Gein evaded the question like a pro (apparently forgetting he faced one himself), spinning a speech about men in black and shadows. The older warrior held out his hand at the end, punctuated with a predictable invitation. 

_One._

“This is my last mission as Okashira of the Oniwabanshu.”

Aoshi felt the declaration seep into his bones, settling comfortably as righteous resolve. He had done very few things during his tenure to be proud of. The Oniwabanshu had been a respectable organization when he started, but then the Bakumatsu ended and their group became divided- between those who assimilated well into peace and the ones swept up by a mercenary lifestyle. Aoshi lived that second life out of loyalty to his men who couldn’t adapt, and, later, pursued a madness-driven penance for them. He had already travelled down the road Gein offered. That path held no allure for him now. 

“I have someone waiting for me.” 

Diamond-coated wires spun around him and the onimitsu danced. His movements were flawless. And, though they came from the same fluid style he always used, somehow, his muscles synced with instinct in a seamless way he’d never quite reached before. Gein twitched gloved fingers and grave stones rose, surrounding him. Aoshi leapt, kodachi drawn as he charged. He broke through the puppetmaster’s offensive with a well-executed feint-tactic: kicking up his discarded sheath. The wood struck Gein’s mask loudly, it’s fixed toothy grin cracking until bone white ceramic crumbled away- revealing sun-spotted, sagging jowls underneath. 

“Are you willing to talk now? Where is Kamiya Kaoru?” 

The old man fumed. Aoshi strode forward confidently, finally recognizing the root of his increased aptitude. For the first time in years, he was truly at peace with his actions, with genuine faith behind the utilisation of his skills. He was fighting for a peaceful end: for a world where Misao could dress in silly disguises alongside the samurai brat and call it subterfuge. For a future, devoid of the terror brought forth by Enishi’s Jinchuu, where Kamiya Kaoru walks free and unscathed, one without Misao’s (and everyone else’s) tears. 

A future open to him because Kenshin once had faith in _him._

Aoshi moved forward, body poised to slide into his finishing stance. There was no place in this era for shadows like Gein (like he used to be), not without unacceptable collateral. He planned to bury his final shadows, alongside the other shadow’s defeat.

“This shadowed villainy, with my shadowy strength, I will consign to darkness.” 

He couldn’t think of a more fitting cause for his last acts as Okashira.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aoshi was kind of an obvious choice for this prompt, but I also really wanted to include Gein since I feel a lot of Enishi’s henchmen get short-changed compared to him. Upon rereading the Aoshi/Gein fight and the build-up to it, I realized just how much this particular segment highlighted Aoshi coming back into his element. He was the youngest Okashira for a reason! 
> 
> I know the fight is a bit out of order (Aoshi’s final line of dialogue was actually spoken before Gein’s mask broke in the manga) and I skipped a bunch of details/banter-dialogue to avoid flat out retelling the manga. My excuse is artistic license in order to insure the prose and ideas flowed the way I wanted them to.


	5. Trust/Betrayal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because in the end... Enishi hadn’t honored his sister’s memory at all.

Battousai’s woman handed him the diary while he was in chains, defeated, self-righteous police pigs dragging him away from every (pointless) accomplishment he’d made.

“Here. Have this.” 

She held out the bound bundle with sakura petal sleeves, a bright (too bright) smile on her flushed face. He stared at the object blankly at first, brain still too wrapped up in battle and ‘why-was-she-protecting-him?’ to process the significance of her offering. A not-so-subtle yank on his handcuffs finally prompted him to take the booklet. He watched her run back to Battousai then, sleek black ponytail swishing across her back, and knew he would never see her again.

_This handwriting_ , he looked down at the frayed cover as officers led him up a wooden ship plank. He remembered this handwriting…

His sister wrote in her diary every evening before bed, without fail. Sometimes, he would sit behind her- drawn by warm candlelight and her calm presence- watching the precise wrist flicks that translated to her elegant hand. He knew her characters well from his kanji lessons (she was the one who taught him, after all), and would often try to imagine what words she used in each entry. He never read them himself, though. Not since she caught him peeking over her shoulder once when he was five. She slammed the journal shut immediately, and warned him against ever intruding on a woman’s most private thoughts; she told him that it was one of the ultimate violations of trust. 

He promised to never sneak another peek. He trusted his sister more than anyone else in the entire world, he would rather stick a thousand needles in his eyes then give her cause not to trust him as well…

But now, he was sitting in a dilapidated slum, staring at a cover bearing her name in familiar strokes. Escaping the prison ship had been easy enough. Breaking his childhood vow to the one person who meant everything to him, less so. 

He broke down soon enough. Yukishirou Tomoe was dead, killed before his very eyes, these written words were the only piece of her that existed outside memory. The binding cracked softly as he opened the pages. He sat back against a crumbling wall, turned to the first entry, and devoured his sister’s story.

By the time he finished, the axis of his world had shifted uncomfortably far. The cool, composed woman (always with a gentle smile) in his mind’s eye had been superimposed by one filled with insecurities, who defensively bottled emotions whenever they overwhelmed her. He didn’t realize how often his childhood recklessness drove her to frustration. She worried about him constantly, especially after she’d left home. He discovered her guilt over Kiyosato’s death, how she blamed his enlistment on failing to adequately express her happiness to him. The words painted his sister in another light: still recognizable, but different.

Nothing could have prepared him though, for the chapters after she encountered Battousai.

She wrote of the ruthless blade she saw, the bloody rain that fell when they first met face to face. But, she also noted the man’s kindness and protective nature- how he defended her, a complete stranger, from hecklers inside a tavern and carried her to (relative) safety after she fainted. Further on, she detailed the emotional conflict he struggled with as a hitokiri. _‘A gentle soul, who embarked on a dark path with the best intentions,’_ she called Battousai. He couldn’t fathom… he knew his sister had loved Kiyosato immensely. How could she have possibly empathized with his killer?

Her final entry was written the night before she died. It read like a last testament: explaining the actions she was about to take and the reasons why. She loved Battousai (Himura Kenshin, he had to remind himself now). The man who stole her initial happiness had become her new source, and she planned to ensure his life at the cost of her own. _‘I know he will create a better world. When the war ends and he puts down his killing sword for good, as he promised, a great number of people will benefit from his kind heart. He has to live, my second love,’_ she wrote. His sister clearly believed the Yaminobu wouldn’t spare her. Her final inked regret was of involving her younger brother in _‘this dreadful plot.’_

_‘I hope Enishi listened to me for once and went home. For both our sakes. I don’t think my spirit will be able to rest if my actions tomorrow cause him harm as well.’_

The journal fell from shaking hands. 

He recalled feeling alone (so hopelessly alone) after that day, living off Kyoto’s backstreets until the war ended. He didn’t care anymore without her; his hair became a snowy white, his cheeks sunk in, and the eyes looking back at him from murky puddles faded to a cold blue. Sometimes, he swore his sister was right beside him, but, whenever he turned, she was never there.

Until Shanghai. He saw her for the first time amidst the blood of his adopted family, slain by his own borrowed blade. She stood before him, whole, an ethereal image of pale whites and graceful poise. She was smiling. 

He was certain then, that he’d chosen the correct path. Willing to do anything for that smile, he walked away from comfort to pursue what power he could on Shanghai’s streets. He joined the mafia. He buried all sentiment and moved his way up through the ranks. He murdered in the name of completing his sister’s revenge. She never responded to his voiced entreaties or one-sided conversations- she just kept smiling at him. It was his only sign. He truly thought he had been fulfilling her will back then. 

Small wonder she stopped smiling for him.

He reached out a dirty hand towards the discarded diary (his poor, misunderstood sister), scooping the bent papers out of yellow dust and cradling them close. Around him, bedraggled feet attached to equally despondent people dragged across the narrow road. Rakuninmura, this place was called: The Village of Fallen Ones. The perfect spot for scum like him to disappear. 

Because in the end (even through pain, near-death, blood, murder, and hardship), Enishi hadn’t honored his sister’s memory at all. Instead, he betrayed her last wishes; tormented the man she died for. Worse yet, he only grasped the full weight of what he’d done by violating her trust as an innocent five year-old boy promised he never would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got a little behind on prompts since the past couple days have been occupied with family events, but I’m going to try getting the last two done tomorrow. Pumps fist.
> 
> I don’t have too much to say about my interpretation of the prompt this time, except Enishi is a sad, sad character. I was also a bit inspired after reading [this](http://animaniacal-laughter.tumblr.com/post/121558540182/rurouni-kenshin-week-day-i-illusion-of-tomoe) lovely Day 1 analysis on Tomoe’s POV in RuroKen- particularly how she doesn’t really have one since her story is told almost entirely within the framework of Kenshin and Enishi’s POV. Her diary is the one exception and the reader never sees it… Enishi does at the end, but off panel. I became interested in exploring that moment.


	6. Life/Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m not an idiot,” Kaoru interrupted. “There’s something you’re not telling me, and I know the others will just sugarcoat it the way they obviously did on the ship. Please, Megumi-san… I’m worried. Don’t leave me in the dark about this.”

Kaoru didn’t notice everyone’s strange behavior until the morning after their return. Or, more accurately, she noticed during the ship ride off the island, but didn’t register their behavior as odd initially. Enishi had held her captive for several days, after all. Days where the others must have worried, unsure if she was hurt, and (perhaps) missed her just as much as she missed them. The attention they lavished on her was understandable.

 

However, she grew concerned when Sano kept looking at her as if to assure himself she was there, adding a, “what do ya think, Jou-chan?” if he happened to be in the middle of conversation when he did. Yahiko’s excessive insults and jibs were irritating at first, but the relieved glint in his brown eyes each time she yelled back was enough to chill her ire. And then there was Kenshin. Outwardly, his actions appeared less conspicuous, though Kaoru knew him well enough to pick up signs. He hovered, insisting on helping her with every little thing (despite his extensive injuries). She caught him staring vacantly in her general direction more than once, a fresh haunted shadow behind his violet eyes and tight pinch-lines alongside the dimples in his guarded smile. Kaoru’s apprehension grew throughout the evening. She tried to ease the anxiety by reminding herself that everyone was still recovering from Enishi’s actions, still, she never imagined her disappearance would affect their makeshift family so strongly. 

 

Then, the next day, Tae stopped by with Tsubame in tow. The woman engulfed her in an exuberant bearhug, squeezing both their breaths away as she choked out, “Oh, I’m so glad… so glad.”

 

Kaoru stiffened in shock. The arms around her tightened further as their owner trembled. Was Tae-san about to… cry? Her gaze shifted to Tsubame, still standing in the dojo gateway. The girl wept openly even as a watery smile graced her features. Their visit had been a short one (filled with numerous iterations of “I’m fine” and “thank goodness”), but no less emotional for the brief duration. Kaoru was left feeling drained afterwards: heart racing as her growing apprehension from the night before reared back in full force.

 

Later that afternoon, feeling antsy as the habits around her persisted, she donned her hakama- dragging a protesting Yahiko and eager Misao to the dojo. Kenshin left her side for the first time, turning away just a tad too quickly with the hurried excuse of preparing dinner. Yahiko crossed the threshold with them, but, the longer he stayed, the more his unease became apparent. She supervised a very light workout for him, not wanting to aggravate the boy’s injuries from battle, and dismissed him while she spared with Misao. Kaoru didn’t miss the grateful sigh he released.

 

Dinner provided much of the same: Sano’s attentiveness, Yahiko’s antagonization, and Kenshin’s smothering presence. Something was very wrong with her family and Kaoru had no idea why. She didn’t know what to do.

 

And so, when Megumi paid a house call the next day for follow-up checks, she grabbed the doctor’s purple smock and forcibly dragged her aside. The younger woman noted the way Megumi flinched as they passed the dojo entrance (just like Kenshin and Sano did) before rounding the corner, coming to a stop outside her bathhouse. 

 

“What happened while I was on the island?” she demanded, not in the mood to beat around the bush.

 

“What do mean?” the older woman evaded, flicking back a long lock of her dark hair. “We told you on the ship…”

 

“I’m not an idiot,” Kaoru interrupted. “Everyone has been… they’re not acting normal. There’s something you’re not telling me, and I know the others will just sugarcoat it the way they obviously did on the ship. Please, Megumi-san… I’m worried. Don’t leave me in the dark about this.”

 

Her friend glanced sideways at the sincere entreaty, lower lip caught between teeth, and Kaoru feared another lie. She had chosen to ask Megumi because the doctor had trusted her with harsh truths in the past (especially regarding Kenshin’s health); she had hoped that faith would carry over to whatever _this_ was. What terrible thing could have happened to make even the practical no-nonsense fox hesitate? 

 

“She has a right to know, Takani.”

 

Both women turned abruptly. Shinomori Aoshi stood calmly several paces away, his stoic poise contrasting sharply with their frazzled nerves.

 

“Don’t sneak up on people like that!”

 

“She already suspects, Takani,” he continued on through her outburst. “Withholding the story is doing her peace of mind no favors at this point.”

 

“I know!” Megumi exclaimed, her expression crumbling before Kaoru’s eyes. “You’re right… I know that. It’s just that... I thought we could have a few days…”

 

“If you’re not ready yet, I can tell her,” Aoshi offered, black fringe swaying as he sympathetically inclined his head. “I didn’t experience the initial deception, it might be easier.”

 

“No, that’s why it should be me,” the doctor composed herself with a bracing inhale. “She deserves to hear the truth from me.”

 

Kaoru didn’t know what she expected, but the tale Megumi told (with the occasional added detail from Aoshi) was far from it. She gasped, horrified, upon hearing that Enishi planted a false corpse of her in the dojo for Kenshin to find, Megumi and Sano not far behind. At least Yahiko was unconscious then, he hadn’t been awake to witness… _that_. The doctor stuttered slightly when she reached the part of pronouncing Kaoru’s death herself.

 

“Your… its wrist… was still slightly warm... cooling and becoming stiff just as a freshly killed body would.”

 

Reliving those moments was clearly difficult for her, still, she persevered through the rest of her story. She recapped the funeral, Kenshin’s disappearance, and their desperate search for him. Kaoru’s heart broke all over again when she heard about Rakuninmura.

 

“He was just sitting there in filth. He wouldn’t eat or let me treat his wounds, and only spoke to say he was tired. We begged him to come back. The Rooster Head even tried to punch some sense into him, but Ken-san had just completely… given up.”

 

Suddenly, the young woman recalled a night long ago: the one after Kenshin revealed his past with Enishi and Tomoe. In the memory, she listened from her place on an adjacent futon as Megumi asked a loaded question.

 

_‘If you were in Tomoe’s situation would you die for him?’_

_‘I wouldn’t... Because Kenshin would blame himself and be in more pain. That is why I absolutely will not die!’_

 

Kaoru stood by her declaration back then. Yet, without meaning to, she had still caused him that pain. Even on the island beach, when a gun had been trained on Kenshin’s prone body, she jumped to shield him without a second thought to her own safety. In her desire to protect Kenshin, Kaoru had utterly demolished her original intent. 

 

Her “death” had seared a hole in everyone else as well. Sano departed for a while. Yahiko was forced to make the hard call when Aoshi brought up the possibility of a “corpse doll.” They’d set out in the dead of night to dig up her grave, banking on the slim hope of an obscure onimitsu art. Megumi gladly let Aoshi elaborate on their findings, since it was he who pulled the damning wires from the fake’s chest.

 

Kaoru almost lost her temper when the onimitsu explained their reasoning for keeping the information from Kenshin immediately afterwards.

 

“How could you?!” she growled. “You could have spared him all that…”

 

“No,” he cut her off. “We could have told him, yes, but then the demons that led him to Rakuninmura would still be there. Himura needed to pull himself out of that state… to find his own reasons and come to terms with his past. It may have been painful, but it was what he needed at the time. I know that from experience.” 

 

She balked a bit at his personal analogy, remaining silent as Megumi continued on. Perhaps Aoshi was right, she thought by the end- Kenshin did eventually find his own way. He protected Yahiko and journeyed with them to Enishi’s hideaway, where they saw her alive and well for the first time since their last confrontation. 

 

“Thank you, Megumi-san,” Kaoru said when the other woman finally stopped speaking. “And, I’m sorry… for making you relive everything. I know it wasn’t easy, so, thank you.”

 

“Don’t, Kaoru-san,” she protested. “It wasn’t real and you’re here now. That’s enough.”

 

Even so, Kaoru could see fissures in the fox’s carefully crafted facade. The space between them twanged with a palpable tension, like a bowstring pulled too taut. Enishi’s despicable deed still hung ominously, but, now, the younger woman understood. This time, she could act.

 

“Megumi-san,” she opened her arms and leaned forward to embrace the doctor. Megumi didn’t move to meet her, though, once contact was made, the older woman collapsed against her. A dry sob escaped near Kaoru’s ear; the collar of her buttercup yellow kimono fisted in a white-knuckle grip. There were no tears (even as Megumi vocalized her pain), for she had always been a reserved woman.

 

“Please do us all a favor and stay alive, Tanuki-chan,” she pleaded. “I don’t want to bury you again.”

 

Kaoru happily sealed that promise.

 

The following days were spent utilizing her newfound knowledge. She moved further into Sano’s line of sight when his gaze wandered, sometimes sharing her opinion before he asked. She played along with Yahiko’s bratty games. Figuring out how to consol Kenshin was harder. In the end, she simply inserted some variant of “I’m fine” into conversation whenever she could, helplessly hopeful that someday reality would eclipse the trauma. Kaoru clung to her optimistic outlook, otherwise she might doubt her gestures did any good at all.

 

Then, Sanosuke was running from the police. Yahiko moved out and Megumi returned to Aizu in search of her family. Everything changed in the blink of an eye. Kaoru was still reeling when she accompanied Kenshin on his trip to Tomoe’s grave, hands clasped and mind blank as she wondered what someone in her position could possibly say to such a sad woman. Tomoe had faced a great deal of violence and heartache in her short life, culminating in a sacrificial act for the man she loved. Kaoru had already resolved that her role in Kenshin’s would be different. Increasingly empty words rolled around in her brain as the sweet, musky scent of incense curled around them.

 

_‘I promised Megumi-san that I would live… so, I guess I’ll promise you the same. Thank you, Tomoe-san. I’ll stay alive and look after for him.’_

 

They left just before sunset. Kenshin stepped in front of her, extending his uninjured arm as she did for him once months ago: after Kyoto. The swordsman wore his usual smile, but, somehow, his demeanor seemed lighter. Kaoru smiled back. She had always intended to repeat her promise to him, anything to help diminish the shadow Enishi inflicted. Now, looking at the peaceful expression on his scarred face, Kaoru decided that telling him wasn’t important after all. Not as long as she fulfilled it.

 

She took his hand. 

 

xxxxxx

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another prompt that ran on a bit farther than I intended, but Kaoru’s my second favorite character (after Kenshin, of course) so I’m not too surprised.
> 
> I’d just like to point out that the Kenshingumi weren't withholding the story maliciously, or out of some misguided “protect the fragile girl” scenario (they respect Kaoru far too much for that). Rather, that they themselves were still recovering from Enishi’s plot and the intense emotions it put each of them through. They simply weren’t emotionally ready to tell her yet, but I’d like to imagine that eventually they would have (I tried to illustrate that point in story with Megumi's, "I thought we could have a few days"). Of course, Kaoru grew concerned and pushed Megumi because out of everyone else (who, from her POV, had already censored their stories, so why wouldn't they do it again?) she expects her to tell it straight, no matter what.


	7. Yahiko's Moving Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yahiko didn’t realize how much he’d grown accustomed to living surrounded by family (albeit a rather unconventional one) until now.

For someone who possessed so few personal belongings, Sagara Sanosuke had managed to cultivate quite the mess in his rowhouse.

“Mou! Look at this pigsty!” Kaoru exclaimed as they slid the door open. Yahiko, having grown accustomed to the neat orderly Kamiya household over the past several months, agreed. Sano’s futon and bedding lay strewn across the floor, crumpled. Easily half a dozen sake jugs littered the corners: some empty, others not. And the dust- Yahiko had to whistle. He didn’t know dust bunnies could get that large. 

“Well,” Kaoru spun around to face Kenshin, whom she had commandeered to carry all their cleaning supplies. The retired swordsman already had his gi sleeves tied up and a rag holding back his long red hair. “Looks like we’ve got our work cut out for us.” 

The three immediately dove into the disarray Sano left behind. At first, Yahiko had been nervous when Kaoru insisted on helping him move; but now, watching her haul heavy tatami mats outside to air out, he was glad his adopted family came along. Tsubame showed up halfway through the afternoon, grabbing an unused dust rag and joining them in the chaos. Sunset had painted the sky a vibrant spectrum of purples and oranges by the time they finished. The room was spotless: futon folded nicely against the wall, a humble sword rack with two shinai and a bouken (the latter being a housewarming gift from his instructor) standing tall in the adjacent corner. A simple chest, filled with his own personal effects, had been placed next to the rack.

“Well, I think we’ve managed to turn this place into somewhere livable again,” Kaoru huffed, wiping dirt-streaked hands on her brown hakama. 

“Aa,” Kenshin affirmed, turning towards Yahiko afterwards. “Are you excited, Yahiko?” 

“Of course!” the boy laughed. “I finally get to sleep somewhere without the hag constantly in my hair!”

“H… hag?! Why I should…”

The young woman pinched his ear painfully before Kenshin stepped in to calm her down. 

“Now, now, Kaoru-dono.”

“Serves him right! The brat needs to learn manners. Isn’t that right, Yahiko-CHAN!”

“Oi!” the boy protested loudly. He hated that nickname and she knew it! Behind them, Tsubame giggled at their antics.

“I missed this,” she whispered. 

Clearly, the poor girl hadn’t meant to destroy the light-hearted atmosphere with her words, but neither Kaoru nor Yahiko found the energy to banter back afterwards. They departed soon afterwards, to let him “settle in,” or so Kenshin claimed. 

The boy lit a lantern as darkness fell. Somehow, he couldn’t help feeling that the room looked odd with his trappings in it, not a trace of its former occupant to be found. Sano had left nothing of import behind when he fled. All around, Yahiko could hear his stranger neighbors through rice paper-thin walls, talking and laughing while he sat quietly, alone. He didn’t realize how much he’d grown accustomed to living surrounded by family (albeit a rather unconventional one) until now.

A knock on his door disturbed the boy’s depressing thoughts. He scrambled to open it, wondering who would visit him this late (perhaps Kenshin or Kaoru forgot something? No, the space was still rather spartan), and was met with one of the last people he expected.

“What are you doing here?” Yahiko blurt out rudely in his shock.

“I heard through the gossip chain that you were moving into Sano’s old place,” Tsukioka Katsuhito replied without regard to the boy’s rudeness. Hardly surprising, considering the man was childhood friends with the Rooster Head himself. 

“Yeah, he gave it to me,” Yahiko leaned nervously against the doorframe. “Sano got into some trouble… I don’t think he’ll be coming back for a while.”

“I know. He contacted me before… I helped him arrange the ship ride out,” Katsu revealed. “I’ve developed some pretty good connections over the past year or so at my job.”

“So, why are you here?”

“I have a gift,” the painter turned journalist pulled a rolled scroll from his bulky red haori. “To celebrate your new residency.”

“I… I thought you gave up painting,” Yahiko gaped as the scroll was set carefully in his short arms.

“I did, excluding special occasions of course. Besides,” Katsu winked. “This one was a special request from a dear friend. He asked me to make sure you felt welcomed here, and he was pretty insistent about it. Consider this my welcome.”

“Th… thank you,” the boy bowed in gratitude. Later, when he unfurled the scroll in private, Yahiko would hold back tears and wish he bowed lower. The composition was simple: two warriors back to back in a blank landscape. Sano held his fist in the air with a cocky grin while a more solemn Kenshin was posed mid-sword draw. 

Yahiko hung the painting above his sword rack. Something clicked after he did so, and it took him several minutes to figure out what it was. Kaoru was present in the tidy arrangement of his room, but now Kenshin and Sano were here too, as they should be. They were his family after all.

And, finally, the rowhouse felt like home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnd… I finished the last prompt. Woot! 
> 
> I wanted to do something a little more lighthearted for this one (especially since I’ve been churning out so much angst this past week), but I somehow ended up with teary heartwarming instead. Oh, well… 
> 
> Also, I’ve been meaning to fit Katsu in one of my stories for a while now. I love his character and really wish Watsuki had utilized him more in the manga. 
> 
> And, last but not least, RuroKen Week was run by a community on Tumblr, and something I participated in to practice prompt writing since I recently opened up my page to writing requests. If you like my writing and want to request something, you can find me there as [kenkaya-fanworks](http://kenkaya-fanworks.tumblr.com/).


End file.
